My wife and I rented a lake house at Cayuga Lake.
I rose before the sun and cast my line out into darkness.
I caught crappies and felt the sun warming my face.
The fish were cold and slimy in my hands.
I went back to the house, washed up, made coffee,
And brought breakfast to our bedroom.
I kissed my wife’s forehead to wake her gently.
I don’t remember what was said between us,
Only the warm glow shining through the windows.
We made love as easy as fish swimming in the lake.
After the room returned to speech, she read her novel
And I wrote. During lunch I read poetry to her
Between bites of sandwich and dark red cherries.
Out the window we watched a father teaching his
Daughter to fish. We went to the boathouse,
Put on lifejackets and carried paddles. I pushed
And hoisted myself onto the boat. She rowed.
I wasn’t a swimmer. But I wasn’t scared. She led me
To waters I had never been to before. Her arms
Led us away from shore. And I was happy.
AUDIO
This poem was selected as the runner-up of the Shō Poetry Prize for Shō No. 6.
Read about the Shō Poetry Prize here, or view past recipients and honorees.
Bunkong Tuon is a Cambodian-American writer and poet. He is the author of three poetry collections. His work has appeared in World Literature Today, Copper Nickel, New York Quarterly, Massachusetts Review, Verse Daily, diode poetry, among others. His debut novel, Koan Khmer (Curbstone Press), and his chapbook, What Is Left (Jacar Press), are forthcoming in 2024. He is poetry editor of Cultural Daily. Tuon teaches at Union College, in Schenectady, NY. More: bunkongtuon.com
